


27 Cases

by irislim



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Detectives, F/M, Flirting, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irislim/pseuds/irislim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a sassy private eye who digs up dirt on all things bad boys. But will it ever be her own turn to find love? Set entirely at the 09er, an AU featuring grown-up versions of Rob Thomas's beloved characters. Remotely inspired by the movie "27 Dresses."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appearances, Abs, Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to irma66 for all her help. I'm working on that last chapter of WFMF, I promise :)

"That'll be twelve dollars."

One hand on her Tequila Sunrise, she uses the other to remove fifteen dollars from her black leather wallet and tosses them on the bar.

"Don't worry about it," the bartender – traditional dark vest and all – pushes back the money with a wink. "It's on the house."

She lifts an eyebrow. She's been here way too many times, often in outfits scantier than her current electric blue ensemble. Simple sleeveless dresses are almost a grandmotherly crime in California. If the house had any intentions at all, it wouldn't have waited till today.

Instantly, her fingers clutch the surprised bartender's wrist. He almost drops a glass.

"Listen, Ratner," she hisses. "don't try to sell me any of that nonsense. You know I can send your parents a copy of all your recent credit card splurges at the bat of an eye. Or wait – is that your dad's name on the card?"

He winces, and she smirks.

"Who is it?" she barks.

The bartender subtly nudges his head to the right. Her eyes blaze down the length of the bar.

At the tail end, in a dark blue dress shirt and an army-short haircut, the tall man leans back with a smirk of his own – his face openly indicating his witness of her recent exchange with Ratner. He lifts a glass in her direction.

He knew she would figure it out. And that ability to be predicted – particularly by a stranger – bothers her to no end.

She lets go of Ratner. Then slipping off her bar stool, cocktail in hand, she saunters over to her stalker for the night. Flirt, charm, and shoot him down – it's always worked before.

"You're welcome," his voice – calm and smooth – cuts her off right when she reaches him.

"Excuse me?"

"You're welcome," he repeats, cocky smirk in place.

She almost laughs at his shamelessness. "And who said I was about to thank you?"

"Nobody." He leans forward ever-so-slightly. "But now you want to talk to me rather than keep watching him."

Her eyes dart to the direction he just indicated. She catches a glimpse of her target through the oriental carvings, dancing the night away. He's a party boy – that's obvious enough; but he hasn't exactly cheated on her client.

"Still no money shot?"

Her eyes jump back to the man beside her. "Do you see a camera anywhere?"

His long fingers dart up to tap the edge of her glasses. "Here."

She swallows. "What makes you so sure?"

"You're young, you're hot, and you're single." He points at her empty ring finger. "No one with those credentials aims for a Sarah Palin look during a weekend at the 09er."

She curses him silently. Should've gone with the necklace cam.

"Veronica Mars, private eye." She sticks out her hand, opting for professional over friendly. He shakes her hand politely.

"Logan Echolls. Nice to meet you." He flashes a disarming smile.

She smiles back instinctively before she feels a vibration in her purse.

"Excuse me," she mutters and pulls out her phone.

_Caitlin Ford: Any news?_

These heiresses can be ridiculously impatient.

She looks up again at her companion – his face all interest. Can't deny he's far more intriguing than the mop of hair currently bobbing on the dance floor.

She shakes her head. Since when did she become so easily distracted?

"Mr. Friedrich is not a cheater." His voice cuts through her thoughts. She perks up – he knows the guy?

Her companion – or Logan, rather – turns his body slightly towards the dance floor. "You see that?" He gestures towards the latest rich-kid fiancé she's following. "He hasn't bought a single drink all night. He dances rather than dines; he snags the men's fries and not the girls' butts."

He leans closer to her. "He's not a cheater. But he's definitely – "

"Broke," she interrupts and concludes.

He nods.

How did she not notice that before?

"So I suppose your client can rest easy," he speaks casually.

"Only if she wants to be married for her money."

Logan looks at her in surprise.

Veronica shrugs. "Not only married women hire private eyes, you know."

Logan nods. "Guess it's smart to screen first, marry later."

"Yup." She snaps playfully.

They fall silent for a moment.

"Why do you think he'd even come here if he's broke?" She asks openly, her eyes still on Sean.

"Well, contrary to popular notion, men care very much about the image they present."

"And that's why they come to a club without their fiancée?"

"Sometimes," he pronounces matter-of-factly. "But that's definitely why they want to mingle with people who will make them appear to have more than they actually do."

"Wealth by association."

"Exactly."

She turns her head to face him, her mind racing to catalogue her perceptive new companion. Is he working the same trade, picking her up, or merely killing time?

"Nothing?"

"Huh?" She blurts involuntarily.

"You're analyzing me, and you've got nothing." He states with prideful confidence. His brown eyes look straight into hers.

She licks her lips, annoyed at his successful prediction – again.

"If you'll buy me another drink, maybe I'll tell you."

He grins. "Deal."

* * *

She angles herself strategically under the warm, entangled lights of the 09er. She slides a hand behind her ear to steady the minuscule camera lens. She waits for him to kiss the lady - either one would do - on his arms. He kisses both. She collects her shots and inches away satisfied.

Strolling towards the bar for a well-deserved drink, she realizes, for once, that she's actually happy to find her assignment cheating. She recalls the garish nail polish on her latest client's fingertips as her hand ran up and down her over-enhanced cleavage.  _"Hotshot superstar Connor Larkin marries model Madison Sinclair. Can't you just see it?!"_ The client gushed in her office yesterday, complete with sparkly eyes. She so doesn't deserve him.

Yes, Veronica Mars has a celebrity crush on Connor and his impeccable abs. So what? Sue her.

She gobbles down the glass of ice water in her hand.

"Didn't know you changed your job."

She smirks in recognition of that baritone before whipping around. "Logan."

"Veronica."

He walks over to lean against the bar beside her. She angles to face him. "You were saying?"

He points at the technology imbedded in her earring. "The paparazzi has levelled up, I see."

She slams her glass on the marble, offended. "I am  _not_ paparazzi."

Logan shrugs. "Care to explain why you're stalking Connor?"

"You know my job, Logan."

"Or so I thought."

"I never lied to you," she seethes.

"Then someone else must have lied to you." He turns towards Connor. She follows his gaze. The two ladies dancing beside the action earlier have been replaced with fresh faces. He has an arm around each, freely enjoying their gyration against him. Veronica squints. Connor is swaying in perfect rhythm to the music - not stumbling nor mumbling. His behavior, for all intents and purposes, is sober and deliberate.

"He's doing this on purpose?"

"Maybe."

She faces him again, annoyed. "What are you trying to imply anyway?"

The cocky smirk returns.

He doesn't answer her. Instead, he hails down a waiter, passes him a note, and stares at Connor Larkin. She looks along with him.

A minute later, the actor gets the note, looks at it, smiles, and walks straight towards them.

Veronica freezes. What is he -

"Logan!" Connor greets him with a friendly slap on the back. Logan nods upwards in the universal male code for 'hello.' Then he turns and winks at her.

Because, of course, he's figured out her little celebrity crush too.

"Connor, meet Veronica." Logan gestures with his hand. "Veronica, my friend, Connor."

She spares one last killer stare at Logan before turning to the actor. She accepts his handshake, willing herself not to tremble as his eyes deliver an obvious appraisal of her skin-tight red dress and its contents. "Hi, Connor. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you." His smile is charming, though his eyes blank. "Are you here with Logan?"

Her heart races. Did Connor Larkin just ask about her availability?

"She's yours for the taking, man," Logan speaks behind him. She glares at his knowing eyes.

Connor apparently misses the wordless communication occurring around him. "Ah, then. Could I buy you a drink?"

Veronica blinks. Will she actually get to boast that Connor Larkin once bought her a drink? She hears someone clearing his throat. She sighs. What kind of private eye would she be?

"Thank you, Connor. I'm flattered. Another night, maybe." She smiles.

"Cool." He says, nonchalant. He turns to Logan. "See you later, man. Catch up with you before Cannes."

Logan nods, and they both watch him go. It takes a minute for the facts to sink in.

"He's single, isn't he?"

"Completely and utterly so," he replies.

Veronica sighs. "That girl - "

"Whether she's trying to get a private collection of photos of her idol or just plain delusional, I can't tell. But both are common in Hollywood."

"And you know all about Hollywood?" She rests back against the bar, resigned.

He shrugs. "I've been around."

The side of her mouth tilts up fractionally. "Should I be afraid?"

Their eyes meet.

"Maybe." He grins.

* * *

She pulls her pony tail a tad tighter and perks up like every overly-painted bar hostess. The fact that Mr. Gant and his buddies rented a private room forces her to be a little more - creative.

The sound of two dozen men shouting "Cheers!" assaults her senses the moment she enters the dimly-lit room. She scans the faces. For a group of people who are two hours into a bachelor party, the number of sober faces strike her as quite impressive.

"May I help you, miss?"

She looks up at the very, very tall person addressing her. Awkward haircut, broad shoulders, and childlike grin - it's him alright.

"Hi." She reaches out to shake his hand eagerly, practiced smile in place. "I'm Mary Beth from reception here. I have a brunette in the front door saying she was booked for this party. She's tall, curvy - wearing a nurse uniform?"

The seated members of the group roar in approval while the groom-to-be flushes to his roots.

"There must be a mistake," he stutters. "We didn't ask for - "

"Well, she's here, isn't she? Just let 'er in!," his best man hollers, drunken arms flailing.

Veronica smiles - all innocence. She stares at her prop clipboard. "She did indicate being here for the stag party of Mr. Casey Gant. Is that the wrong name?"

"Uhm, no, that's my name," the man in front of her stammers while plugging his hands in his pockets. "But I didn't ask for a, uhm, lady entertainer."

"No?" She blinks her eyes. "She sounded pretty sure."

"Let her in!" The best man renews his protests. "None of us will tell Susan."

Casey rolls his eyes at the crowd and turns back to Veronica.

"Whatever it was must've been a miscommunication." He leans forward and hands her fifty dollars in crisp, ten-dollar bills. "Please give this to her to make up for her wasted time. Thank you."

Veronica stares at the bills in her hands. She looks up. Do good men really still exist?

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind, sir." She hands him back the bills. "I saw a few others eyeing her as it was. Sorry for the interruption."

She bows and slips out the door.

Two minutes later, she's gulping down a Bloody Mary, her elbows perched on all-too-familiar black marble.

"Care for company?"

She sighs. "Depends."

"I'll take that as an opening." He slips on the stool beside her.

She smiles sadly. For some reason, being alone tonight doesn't feel particularly appealing. "Nothing better to do?"

"An implication-laden question." He raises his glass with his non-answer.

She smiles before heaving a heavy sigh. "Do good men really exist?"

If he's surprised by the non-sequitur, he doesn't show it.

"Depends on your definition of 'good.'"

"I dunno - nice, faithful?"

"Does the opposite of what you expect of them?"

Her eyes jump up to his. An untapped tenderness flits through his gaze.

"Am I expecting too much?"

"I think you're expecting too little."

She furrows her brow. "Right, I am the lonely maiden at the bar who needs your pity and company because I expect too little of men?"

Logan smiles. "When you constantly expect the worst, how could you expect to get the best?"

She scoffs. "You think 'best' exists?"

"Different variations of it - yes."

She quirks a brow.

"There's no one-size-fits-all in love and life, Veronica. Every match is tailor-made." His eyes dart down to her lips. "And it's not always who we expect it to be."

She inhales slowly. "Yeah?"

"Yes," he responds, suddenly pulling away. "And for the record - "

"Yes?"

"It's not pity that's keeping me here."

 


	2. Tinsel, Toy, Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is completely unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

She throws back her head, shaking her short blond locks, while leaning back against the bar. Her eyes - hazy from the alcohol - loosely follow Meg's svelte figure as she sways back and forth in her fiancé's arms. Nothing short of a nuclear explosion could rouse those two from their sickly sweetness.

She openly shudders.

"Veronica!"

She looks up to see Carrie waving her over to their shared table, her own face as red as the wine in her glass. Veronica internally shakes her head. She's long forgotten why she's leaning against the bar - the projectile protruding so uncomfortably against her upper back - instead of celebrating Meg's engagement with all their friends and family. Why does she feel so much safer over here?

She mouths 'later' to Carrie and turns around to grab a drink.

"I thought detectives were tasked to be discreet?"

She smiles at the familiar voice beside her. Tipsy, she wobbles around to face him and runs a hand down her outfit like a Price-Is-Right showcase model. "Sparkling silver and rhinestone heels not cutting it?"

He laughs. His hands find his pockets. "Perhaps if we were in Vegas."

"Gosh, I wish we were," she mumbles.

"Oh?"

She lowers her lashes like a child caught lying. "Yeah, you know - fountains and all."

"Fountains," he repeats, unconvinced.

Veronica sighs and licks her lips. "Ever felt married to your job?"

"Occasionally." He slips her a martini while grabbing one himself. "It's often expected of men."

She laughs - bitter. "But not of women."

He glances at the couple she was previously eyeing. "And this has to do with Vegas because?"

Veronica gobbles down the cocktail and shakes her head. She turns around until they both face the well-worn dance floor and its nauseating occupants. "If this were Vegas, they'd be married already."

Logan nods slowly. "Sister?"

"Cousin, actually."

"Ah - mother's favorite golden girl."

"Marrying prince freakin' charming."

"No ugly skeletons in the closet?"

"Nope," she snaps. "Unfortunately. Second-generation software tycoon - past model UN, future white house, the whole deal."

"Hm - when's the wedding?"

"Six infuriating months away."

"Whole weekend occasion?"

"Whole  _week_ occasion," she corrects him with a sigh. "Already planning the most efficient way to say 'No, I'm not Meg. Have long since stopped trying.'"

"Why would you?"

"State the obvious?"

"No, why would you try?"

She glances at him, brain fuzzy. "Huh?"

"Why try to be Miss Girl Next Door when you can be, well, you?"

"Because Miss Perfect Disney Princess is the only person who gets to - " she catches her tongue mid-sentence. She looks away.

"Ah, so this is about Duncan Kane."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Do you know  _everyone_?"

"Just about." He chuckles. "He's an excellent young man with as much personality as a tree. But - why him?"

"Why him what?"

"I've seen you - pragmatic, efficient, and hot as hell." He leans closer. "Why be jealous of a tinseltown fairy who snags the good, courteous, and utterly boring paperdoll cutout?"

She shrugs. "Isn't that what we're all supposed to do?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean - wanting what's best - that's normal."

"Ah, and we're back again."

"Back?" She looks up. His eyes spark with energy. She smiles faintly.

"Back to the definition of 'best.'"

"Best - lots of 'em, you say?"

He chuckles and reaches for a glass of water for her. "Right. In more eloquent terms - the mythical 'best' is not just any ideal man on paper."

"Because there's only one of him?"

Now Logan laughs. "The 'best' is always followed by a quantifier - in most cases, a prepositional phrase."

She furrows her brow, confused, while she sips her water.

He tilts his head towards Carrie's table, where Meg and Duncan are finally sitting down, arms entwined. "In this case, the phrase 'for her' quantifies why golden boy and golden girl belong together."

"Because he's best  _for her_."

"Right. And vice versa."

"Okay. So?"

"So that explains the confusion behind your family's expectations as well as your personal emotions."

"Sure, because you totally know what I feel." She feels her cheeks growing warm.

"I don't know, but I can guess." He places a hand on her forearm to placate her. She sighs.

"And what do you guess?"

He doesn't speak until she looks at him again. And when he does, he forms his words gently. "I can guess that Duncan Kane is the golden boy of Veronica's childhood dreams because big cousin Meg says so - and Mom says so."

She doesn't reply.

He continues. "But what young Veronica doesn't realize" - he pauses - "is that what is best  _for her_ , isn't best  _for everyone_."

The words slip out before she can stop them. "And what is best  _for me_?"

They gaze, wordlessly, for three long seconds.

"Guess we'll have to figure that one out."

* * *

She leans closer against the intricate woodwork for a clearer shot. Every other one she took until now involved some sort of bodyguard body part in the way. Despite the bald head and the short stature, the guy's no ordinary  _padrino_.

When another bulky bodyguard squints his eyes at her, she sulks back to the bar and turns to hail down Ratner.

"Any luck?"

She smiles before even turning to face him. "Booze and big bucks - yes. Cheating? Nope."

Logan nods, his eyes averted towards her latest assignment - mafia millionaire Eli Navarro.

She nudges his elbow. "Don't tell me you know this one too?"

He shrugs.

He's quiet - she's surprised. She turns around to face him. "You do?"

Logan lets off a slow stream of air. "Kind of?"

"Banged his curvy little sister before?" She aims for humor.

He surprises her with a scoff. "More like used to bang his fiancée."

She stills. Her mind scrambles for the details of her latest client - seductive sashay and lurid green eyes - an almost ridiculous contrast to her brother. "Lilly Kane?"

"The one and only." His usual gaiety falters.

She nods, uncertain of any other appropriate response.

"Why him?"

For once, she weighs her answers before speaking. "Maybe rich kids can't stick to one toy?"

"She's not exactly his  _girlfriend_ right now."

"He's rich?"

Logan rolls his eyes. "I'm loaded."

She considers for a moment why she knows next to nothing about her now-confidante. "He's  _different_?"

Now Logan smirks. "Are we getting into racist territory now? Cuz that's my forte."

She offers a weak smile.

"Not that a forte in anything would do me any good right now," he mutters under his breath.

Hesitantly, she reaches up and places a hand on his shoulder. "How long?"

"Oh, it's been months." He sounds tired, exasperated. "But sometimes you wonder if she ever loved you, you know? I mean, they didn't exactly wait for us to break up first before getting it on."

The pain in his voice shoots straight to her heart. Who knew Mr. Cocky had one too? "If it's any comfort, she's never spoken ill of you."

He almost smiles. "Guess we just tipped the pity balance my way, eh?"

Her eyes steady on his, she breathes in. "It's not pity keeping me here."

Now he smiles for real. He straightens up, swiftly recovering his suave and height advantage. "So why do you keep coming here?"

"Huh? Well, why do you?" She shoots right back.

"I asked first."

She shrugs. "You know why."

"Fine, then you know why too."

"Let me guess, you need a fresh source of insipid bimbos."

He shakes his head with a smile.

"You need business contacts?"

He shakes it again.

"Oh, I know, you own the place and live off of it."

"A little of that." He cocks his head.

"You do?"

It's his turn to shrug.

"You're not exactly forthcoming, mister."

Now he grins. "Well, why do you come here?"

"Cuz it's my job," she answers as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

He nods, hoisting one foot up against the bar stool behind him. "But what is your job, really?"

She pauses for a moment. "Finding people's faults?"

He rocks his head from side to side in true non-committal form.

"Observing who people really are?" She tries again.

He nods - with more certainty.

"And you're trying to tell me that you're here for the same reason."

"Watching people is what you do, Veronica," he speaks calmly, almost ornamentally so. "And that's exactly what I do too."

"So who do you watch?" She just had to ask.

He looks directly into her eyes with a small, charming smirk. "You."

* * *

_Logan: Veronica, I need your help._

Logan's simple text messages flashes repeatedly in her mind while she adjusts her lenses. He'd gotten her number weeks ago, but it's the first time he's used it. She walks cautiously behind the couple, keeping two yards of safety, as they meander out the side door.

"More!" the redhead lifts an imaginary glass as she wobbles over stray broken bottles.

"Shut up, Trina!" he hushes her, voice gruff, while pulling her by the arm. Veronica leans closer for a shot. She looks at her screen and sighs; it's helpless without flash.

"More! More! More!" Trina Echolls, short hair bobbing, jumps in intoxicated hyperactivity from side to side.

"I'll give you more if you'll just stay put!" The man growls, patience apparently fast expiring, as he strings her along.

Veronica edges closer. If she's going to get just one chance at a picture with flash, she'll make it count.

"Got him yet?"

She jumps at the hoarse whisper behind her and whips around with a ready reprimand.

The reprimand disappears with just one glance at his dark, troubled eyes. Unnerved, she leans up between his shoulder and face. "If you want evidence that counts, we'll have to be patient."

"But he's gonna hurt her!"

"I know," she concedes with a sigh, rolling back from her tiptoes. "But we won't let it escalate, okay?"

It takes far too long for him to nod.

"What are you doing?!" The shriek is all it takes for both to turn and rush forward. To their right, the dark-haired man has his face buried in Trina's neck while his hands pin her harshly against the wall by the wrists. She writhes in obvious disapproval.

In three short seconds, Veronica gets her photo, Trina her footing, and her boyfriend a well-deserved fistful of Logan Echolls.

"Don't you dare touch my sister!"

"Logan, no!" Veronica grabs him by the bicep before he lurches one more time against the bleeding figure scrambling away. His arm strains under her touch. "Dylan Goran - two counts of assault, community service for drunk driving, restraining orders filed by two different women," she recites with military efficiency. "With this photo, we'll add Trina to the list by tonight."

With a big sigh, he stops pulling ahead.

An hour later, Veronica flanks Logan at his favorite barstool, her eye occasionally drifting towards the private room currently housing his resting sister and a nurse.

"You think she'll be okay?" He asks without turning.

"Yes." She doesn't hesitate. "She's stronger than you think."

He nods.

She waits before she asks, "Are you okay?"

Logan shrugs.

Frowning, she leans closer. "I understand why you did what you did, Logan."

Now he smirks. "Nothing like losing control to impress a girl, huh?"

She relaxes a little. "Who said you had to impress me?"

He silently looks her way for a moment. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"No, I mean - " He drops his head. "I know chasing bad guys in dark alleys isn't exactly on your service menu."

"Hey, any chance to spice up my resume." She smiles.

He smiles back - a little. "Never thought of using those super spy skills for something bigger?"

"I tried, but the Cold War ended two decades early."

"Too bad. You'd have blended in perfectly in Moscow - with stilts."

She puts on her most exasperated face. "Really, now?"

He grins for the first time tonight. She smiles along.

"Seriously though, how many?" His eyes sparkle.

"How many what?"

"How many deadbeat fiancés on that resume?"

"It's hard to quantify."

"Cases?"

"Fiancés."

He raises an eyebrow. She tells him the time one client asked her to screen three of her boyfriends, each one oblivious of the others' existence.

"So were you present in her final rose ceremony?"

She chuckles. "They all dumped her eventually. At least they weren't permanently stupid."

He nods. "But all men are at times."

"Stupid?"

He puts a finger across his lips in a 'keep this a secret' gesture. "Absolutely."

"Because?"

He looks straight at her. "Because we invest ourselves into the women we love - even if we might not have the tiniest clue that they'd ever care back."

His eyes bore into hers. Her lungs tighten.

He leans close enough for her to smell the tequila on his breath.

"27," She blurts.

"Huh?" His eyes flit from her lips to her eyes.

She pulls away, eyes lowered. "27 cases of deadbeat fiancés or picture-perfect boyfriends - almost always the former."

He retreats back to his original spot. "And there are no exceptions?"

"Exceptions?"

"Not deadbeat nor picture-perfect - just your everyday reformed bad boy?"

She almost smiles as she holds his gaze.

She licks her lips. "No. But who knows - maybe one day?"

He clinks their glasses with a smile.


	3. Match, Music, Menace

Actor and abusive father, model and alcoholic mother, two counts of teenage violence, one count of drunk driving, and a former mansion burned down by gang violence - Veronica shakes her head under the artistic lights dangling above the bar. She numbly downs a shot of vodka.

Never look up the men interested in her - would she never learn? Same action, expect different results - what did Einstein say about insanity again? She sighs. The illusion of charm and perfection only lasts for as long as she's willing to stay away from the international PI database.

"Need another one?"

She looks up and snarls at the bartender. "Whaddya think?"

He slides her two more shots.

Veronica lifts the small glass. She smirks. If she's really all that upset about Logan Echolls, then why is she here - at the bar  _he_ owns?

"Busy night?" His voice whispers right besides her ear because he, as always, is the only person who could surprise her.

But she focuses instead on her case. She huffs, resigned, "Yeah. You got any dirt on that one?"

They both turn as she gestures subtly towards a tall, broad-shouldered male seated two tables away. His arms spread out on the back of the red sofa, one beer in each hand. His face sports a lop-sided, very drunken grin.

Logan laughs. " _Him_? Oh, I've got plenty."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm starting to wonder if you're making up these acquaintances."

"Reformed bad boys run in the same circles, you know."

"Ah, still trying to pull that one off?"

"Are you saying I'm not bad?" He leans forward on the bar until their faces level.

She scoffs to cover up the hitch in her breath. "I'm saying you're not reformed."

"Me?" He cocks his head. "Work in progress. But if you're trying to tell me Dick Casablancas is getting married - then there's hope for me yet."

She hates that his smirk is so charming. "And why can't he get married?"

"He can, for sure. He did before."

"Oh?" She sits up straight. The girl didn't mentioned an ex-wife. "Bad divorce?"

"More like annulment."

"Huh. Vegas wedding?"

"As usual."

"When was this?"

"Long enough for him to have grown out of it." And suddenly, his tone jumps from trivial to introspective. She licks her lips.

"My client - " She pauses, pondering how much to reveal. "She's a very successful software engineer - top employee at Kane's. She's smart, gorgeous, and put-together. Total career woman."

He looks at her as if to say 'go on.'

She does. "I seldom have clients that eligible show up at my door. I mean, she doesn't have the usual paranoia or trust fund issues. And she's very awesome; and she's - "

"A friend?" he interrupts.

She looks at him for one moment before nodding with a sigh. The guy's perceptive - she'll give him that. "My best friend, actually. And she didn't want me to investigate until I insisted. And I know it may sound noisy and all. But - I just, you know - "

"You just care, and you want the best for her." He suggests when she falters.

She nods.

"Any chance there's some loneliness thrown in there too?"

Surprised by his question, she suddenly realizes that they've been leaning way too close for mere friends. She gulps. "What do you mean?"

"Smart, gorgeous, and put-together career woman - sounds like someone I know."

"Yeah?" she answers tentatively.

"Women like that don't settle." He continues, mesmerizing and calm. "For someone like that to fall for a guy with a less-than-stellar track record - it seems almost, well, unrealistic. And it somehow doesn't add up."

She nods, unable to form words as his sunk in.

"But when you think about it." His eyes, warm and dark, look steadily into hers. "Who are we to say who makes a good match for whom?"

"Because we care?" Her voice sounds more uncertain than she's ever heard herself.

"But sometimes, caring doesn't make us see everything, does it?"

Mom, Meg, Duncan - she shakes her head because it feels like the right thing to do.

With a soft smile, Logan straightens up. He gestures towards her target. "Richard Casablancas, Jr. Divorced parents, imprisoned father, mobster stepmother, homicidal little brother, and college party frat boy. Talented in surfing, video games, drinking, and - by his own claims - coitus."

Veronica winces. "Are you trying to help his case or not?"

Logan chuckles. "Always the happiest person in the room, never forgets to seize the day, and more loyal than a guard dog."

"Okay?"

"In other words, the perfect complement to a smart woman who lives with numbers and stats from day to day."

"Mac is way more interesting than that."

"I'm sure she is." He smiles. "But that doesn't mean the grind of her daily life is."

She falls silent, her mind recollecting the times they'd compared work stories and always ended up discussing her cases.

"So you're saying - opposites attract?"

He smiles, ever charming. "Most of the time - yes."

* * *

She blows a stream of air against her bangs. She figures she would be the one turning homicidal if she had to watch the long-haired freak bob his head and headphones for another minute. Can't he give her something useful to photograph? So much for expensive, camouflaged cameras.

And seriously - who listens to headphones in a high-end bar?

"Bored?"

She feels something far too close to excitement than strictly acceptable at the sound of his voice. "That obvious?"

"Depends." He asks Ratner for two mimosas. "Do you usually stare blankly and furrow your brow when entertained?"

"Hey, I'll have you know I'm full of surprises."

He grins and leans against the bar, facing her. "Try me."

"I - can eat my weight in manicotti."

He gives her a once-over. "Fine. Point - Veronica."

She smiles. "How about you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, your turn. Surprise me."

"Surprise you?"

"Yes."

His grin turns ridiculously mischievous. "You mean to say I still haven't?"

She refuses to acknowledge the probable tint of her currently very-warm face. "Cocky now, aren't we?"

"Practically my middle name."

"No, it's not," she protests. "You're Logan Les - "

She stops too late to prevent the glad surprise on his face.

He smiles wider than she's ever seen him do. "You've looked me up."

"Maybe," she back-pedals.

"And you're still here."

The wonder in his voice makes her look up. Did he ever think she would just disappear? She feels him inching incrementally closer.

The sound of crashing metal interrupts whatever else was about to happen. They both turn towards the commotion of the bar fight. Logan takes off immediately to subdue the offending party.

It takes three minutes to calm everyone down, before security escorts everyone away. Relieved, Veronica turns away from the hustle and, as it happens to be, straight towards two big, mopey eyes on a slumping kid.

But instead of closing his eyes and rocking his headphones, he smiles and walks up to her.

"Oh great," she thinks audibly.

"I know, right?" His voice sounds far too young to be at a bar. "I hate it when violence happens. It's so overrated."

She stares at him, puzzled.

"Hi, I'm Stosh Piznarski. People call me Piz." He extends a hand.

She shakes his hand limply and quickly lets go. Is he seriously doing this?

"Crazy how people act when they're drunk, huh? Not me. I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"Right," she finally blurts out. "And, uhm - I'm sure Parker would appreciate that very much?"

The way his face turns red is the most interesting thing he's done all night.

"Right, right," he mumbles and slides away.

"That kid giving you trouble?"

She's still too shocked to re-establish any normal facial expressions. "He's giving himself trouble. All this is going back to Little Miss Fiancée." She taps the brooch on her lapel.

Logan laughs, his hands flexing his fingers. "Poor fella. Messed with the wrong girl."

"Absolutely."

He chuckles again. "Not that I blame him."

"Excuse me?" She turns around.

"If this bar is the night sky, then you, my dear, are Sirius."

She arches a brow at the literal astronomical flirtation. "Seriously?"

"Okay, okay." He swallows his water with a laugh. "I'll stop trying. Pick-up lines aren't my thing, anyway."

"Oh, now you're just totally sincere." She can't help laughing now.

"I am," he insists, eyes dancing. "I dare say I've never used a pick-up line on you."

She tilts her head and scans her memory.

"See? You've got nothing." He smiles proudly.

And he wins again. She shakes her head, still smiling. "You think you have it all figured out, don't you?"

He grins. "Almost."

* * *

She shifts her leg to prevent further cramping. Crouching behind a plant - as cliche as it is - isn't exactly a comfortable sleuthing position.

She peeks at her watch and sighs. She's totally going to charge Shelly Pomroy double for the inordinate amount of time her boy toy wants to spend in the men's room. How's she supposed to blend in there?

Next time, she's bringing a cleaning lady outfit.

The telltale sound of a door handle hitting the wall has her twisting for a better angle.

Grey suit jacket, short hair, and brisk walk - nothing unusual, she concludes with five quick shots. She straightens up and follows closer.

_Troy Vandegraff: son of businessman Lawrence Vandegraff, Hearst graduate 2010 -_ that's all the database gave her. And she'll be damned if she doesn't find at least a smidgeon more of information for her client. It's not every day that she gets an ambassador's personal blank check.

For half the night, the young man drinks from the premium page of the menu, in the company of two unassuming male friends. Unless daddy dearest considers overpriced drinks an investment, it's a wonder the kid's trust fund hasn't run dry. After another hour of waiting impatiently, she watches him receive a backpack from a burly, weightlifter-like mass of a man. They shake hands, and Troy calls for the bill. The giant wanders away.

"Off the clock yet?"

She smiles - finally. "I suppose. The dude's weird, but that ain't no crime."

Logan nods, gracefully handing her a glass of whiskey. "No interesting footage, at least?"

"Only if the picture of Jiminy Cricket shaking the hand of a regular Goliath deserves a Pulitzer."

"Ah, I'll send you a frame."

"Don't forget the gold embellishments."

"I always knew you were a closet gold-digger." He grins.

"Only for you." She grins back.

They smile amicably for a moment. Somewhere along the last two months, she's come to love the companionable silence as much as the banter.

"So - any plans for the weekend?" He asks casually.

"Are you asking me out?"

"Are you even free?"

"No," she concedes. The guy's too good. "Bridesmaid dress fitting coming up. Yey!"

He laughs at her half-hearted cheer. "Let's see - pink?"

"Worse."

"Baby pink?"

She shakes her head.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here - barbie pink?"

She nods and sighs. "Meg wanted girly and Lilly wanted bright. It's supposed to be the bride's day. But, well, you know - "

"Lilly Kane is a force of nature."

"Yeah," she accedes, slightly embarrassed for having brought up his ex-girlfriend.

"Hey, it's okay." His hushed tone makes her look up. "I'm over her, completely. I could look at her all day long and not feel a single bit bad about it."

"Yeah?" She smiles hesitantly. It's nicer when he's happy. "Howcome?"

"Cuz I've found someone better." His gaze jumps to her lips and back to her eyes. He smiles, slow and charming.

"Better?" The word feels laden, significant.

"Yeah. And who knows." He pauses just the right number of seconds to drive it home. "Maybe even  _best_."

The way her mouth goes dry is totally unacceptable. But just when she's about to throw it all out there, close her eyes, and remove those impossible two inches between their lips, a loud handle-against-door slam has both of them turning towards the restroom door behind him.

Veronica frowns. Leaving the men's room with a heavy sling bag is jumbo man again. Why hasn't he left yet?

"Excuse me," she whispers and slides off her seat.

Entranced, she watches him hurry out the back door of the 09er - a door that she knows exists only thanks to Trina. She pauses two feet from the exit. Why does Troy's buddy look like he's smuggling something?

"Because he is," she mutters aloud as the realization sinks in with regards to the young Mr. Vandegraff's alternate sources of income.

Immediately, she retrieves the SD card from her pendant, whips out her tablet, and plugs it in. Agitated, she quickly scrolls through the last few pictures. The backpack - she inhales sharply. Did she just witness a drug deal?

"I knew you were up to no good."

She whips around at the unfamiliar voice. Eyes blazing, Troy Vandegraff towers in front of her, charm switched to harm. She feels smart - but also very, very small.

"Hey there," she chirps, suddenly young and vulnerable again. "Buy you a drink?"

"You think you're so cute - "

"Scotch?" She keeps trying, "I know the bartender."

"But if you don't give me that memory card, I - "

She gasps as Troy's face hits the floor. Two more moans indicate that he'll be staying there for a while.

"You okay?"

She looks up. His eyes, unbelievably, are even softer than his voice. "Uhm, yeah."

He nods and walks away to call security. She wanders back to the bar.

"Sorry, that took a while."

She looks at him, and then at her watch. Where did the last hour go?

"Hey, are you alright? You look - a little shocked."

Shocked? She wants to laugh. This is far more than shock.

"Veronica." His hand finds her shoulder. "Are you okay? I can get you a drink - or get you home, if you want. That guy - he's gone now. They'll lock him up good. I mean - yeah, I'm sorry for your client. But I guess he doesn't deserve her?"

It takes a second to realize she hasn't been answering. "Oh yeah, yes. She's gonna be sad - but, well - it's okay. He's bad news."

"Yes, he certainly is."

She darts her tongue over her lips. "Yeah."

"Will she be okay?"

"Huh?"

"Your client?"

"Oh, oh - yes." She barely hears herself above the cacophony of thoughts shouting in her brain. "I guess just because we think we know somebody doesn't mean we do."

"Yeah." He sounds genuinely concerned. "Sometimes, we miss out on what's right in front of us, you know?"

And the very moment their eyes meet, she knows exactly what he's talking about.

"Yeah." She barely finishes her whisper before their mouths crash halfway.

Her eyes flutter close as she pulls him closer by the neck and shoulders, her lips greedily caressing his. His warm, strong hands wander around her and press her towards him from the back. Again and again, she kisses him; and again and again he kisses back. And if they have always communicated well with their minds, they definitely do just as well with their bodies.

Two breathless minutes later, he presses their foreheads together, her standing between his legs while he's seated on the swiveling barstool. He smiles, boyish and beguiling. "Finally figured out that  _best_  we were talking about?"

"I dunno." She beams back at him. "But I have a long, long week at my cousin's wedding to figure out."

He grins. "Deal."


End file.
